


And All His Saints

by beaubete



Category: Thor (Movies), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, M/M, mention of ritualized murder, spoilers for s01e08 - Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan cries for God to hear him, and someone answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All His Saints

**Author's Note:**

> I am...probably going to hell? Blowjobs as prayer and the one doing the deed a monk, haha. This is Marvel Thor--at least, that's who I had in mind--but literally no knowledge of Marvel canon is necessary to understand this. It's porn, so nearly no knowledge of anything is necessary to understand it, really, though you probably want to have seen the episode of Vikings (that's s01e08, "Sacrifice") that it's set in.

Athelstan meets the stranger in the woods.  He cannot—he will not—thoughts swirl in his head like deadly currents trapped against the shores of his mind.  There is no God, because God would not let—there is no God, he realizes.  The thought leaves him giddy; he wants to shout it, but some small, cringing part of him is sobbing, beating its chest.  The careworn fabric of his shirt parts under his fingernails easily as he rends his clothes like a grief-struck woman.

And then he sees him.  This place has an air like a church, sigils carved and burned into the grass.  The stranger stands in the center and watches him.  His hair is bright, golden; this man is a warlord, obviously, but all Athelstan can see is Ragnar in the line of his shoulders, the thick of his thighs.  These Northmen dress so strangely—the medallions on the stranger’s chest cannot protect him from much, though his mail is unusual, more like the knights’ he’s used to from home.  The stranger, the not-Ragnar, smiles at him and it is thin, blood-lipped and potent.  Athelstan falls to his knees beside him.

The stranger’s warhammer is streaked with blood, and Athelstan understands for the first time going willing under that wicked blade, understands the joy in feeling his flesh part and leak for the gods.  He touches his tongue to the head of the hammer and tastes copper and ozone.  It’s exciting; his cock is growing in his breeches as he mouths the cold metal until it is cleaner, until his face is smeared and red.  The stranger watches him with dark eyes.  This is a man who understands the bloodlust.

His thigh is hot under Athelstan’s cheek, the smell of him dark and pulling until he can’t help but reach trembling fingers; it is an act of benediction, kneeling back to taste the Body with eyes closed, mouth open, tongue extended.  The stranger does not disappoint.

He is thick, thicker than Athelstan and thicker than Ragnar Lothbrok, thick enough to press his jaw open wide and worshipful as he feeds him impatiently.  It is heady, easy to lose himself in the touch and taste, the deep salts and metal and the sensation of his hair lifting on end, sharp and tingling across his skin.  Then the stranger thrusts and oh.

He would take his time, but that’s not what the stranger wants.  Instead, he tips back, wraps his hand around the base, and tries to remember the strokes he preferred as a child, before God had shamed this out of him.  He can’t—he settles for a variation of Lagertha’s flexing wrist, watched jealously and secretly in the dark.  The stranger doesn’t mind the theft; he grunts eagerly and fucks forward.  Athelstan’s lips are tingling, numb with the power roiling from him.  His own cock is painfully kept, straining between his legs for a touch, even a glance.

The stranger comes with a shout, fingers tight in Athelstan’s hair.  There is a tearing sensation; dark strands come away in the huge, golden fist.  He doesn’t mind.  He presses the flat of his palm to the damp of his breeches and whines, his release already soaking through.  The stranger smiles wild and sharp, stepping away, and the clouds open behind him.

This is what is at the end of the rainbow, Athelstan realizes.  There is a dark man with his stranger now, and as they step from the blinding light, he has the presence of mind to look away.  A hand touches him, perhaps, and is gone.  When he looks up, he is alone again on the carved and burned sigils.  He wipes his mouth.

Staggering back to the gathering, he ignores the chaos around, and for once, the chaos ignores him.  Ragnar is off playing warlord, perhaps, or fucking his wife.  Athelstan drops onto a log near Floki and closes his eyes.  When he opens them, there is a bottle of mead before him.  He drinks deep, and Floki laughs.


End file.
